the scars we're afraid to admit we have
by interstellaire
Summary: post-avengers AU — Loki has no desire to tell her of Thanos, or of the horrors of the Sanctuary – he doesn't exactly mean for it to slip in one of their arguments.


**summary:** post-avengers au / he has no desire to tell her of Thanos, or of the horrors of the Sanctuary – he doesn't exactly mean for it to slip in one of their arguments.

**rating: **PG-13

**disclaimer: **i don't own marvel

**author's notes: **written for sifki week 2019, prompt 3: scars. rated for mentions of torture, and ptsd.

(i was going to write something cute for a different prompt, but… surprise)

* * *

"Why must you be _so difficult, _Loki?"

The raven-haired god narrows his eyes, the only telltale sign of frustration, and crosses his arms. "Do enlighten me, my Lady – how am _I _the one being difficult in this situation?"

Sif lets out a growl, and Loki is beginning to regret allowing her into his chambers. Ever since the All-Father amended his original punishment – to have him imprisoned for the rest of eternity – to confinement to the palace grounds, he's been thinking about mending the bridges he burned when he fell from the Bifrost.

But what he had shared with Sif – it had been real, and he had been _happy _because of it. He wants that again. She's only started talking to him a few days ago, and has apparently deemed it her mission to determine why he committed his crimes against Midgard – and against her_. _

Loki never knows how to answer her, because he can't answer without telling her the _truth _– and the truth is something he never wishes to dwell on for a moment too long, despite the fact that he relives it every night in his dreams.

Loki spends most of the time in his rooms, or the palace library, trying to find a tome – a spell, _anything _– that can hold the mad titan and his armies off for as long as possible.

The thought of him invading Asgard, and taking away everything he has left—

_You will know something as sweet as pain. _

He knows he should warn Thor, or his mother, or Odin – hell, even Sif. Asgard needs to be prepared to face her next enemy, and his reputation in the eyes of the people would be much higher should he give warning of the oncoming threat – but if he does, that means he has to _speak _about what he knows, what he's seen; _what's been done to him—_

"Why can you not just give me an honest answer as to why?" Sif's harsh voice demands, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. It's all his thoughts seem to do, ever since Thanos pressed the stone to his temple, and tampered with his mind_. _

_Spiral, unravel, collapse, again—_

"Why, what?" Loki asks, tone innocent as he bites the inside of his cheek to ground himself. He can't get lost now, he _can't. _

_Spiral, unravel, col—Stop. Focus on Sif. _

The warrior-maiden glares at him, and he sweeps a quick glance around his room to make sure there is nothing she could find to throw at his head.

"Why you let go," Sif says, voice steel, and Loki ignores the urge to fidget. "Why you laid waste to a world of innocents, with the intention to rule them. Why you refuse to tell me your reasoning to any of your wrongdoings."

Loki shrugs. "I did it, because…I wanted to." The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, and Sif knits her eyebrows together, as if sensing his fib.

"You are not careful with your words, Silvertongue," she claims. "Tell me the truth." Loki averts his emerald eyes from her intense glare, and she slams a fist against the wall without a flinch. "Damn you, Loki, tell me the truth!"

His patience and reserve snaps. "What in the Nine Realms do you want me to say? That I made a deal with the Chitauri, and they gave me the scepter and an army in exchange for the Tesseract? That it was all negotiations?" Loki arches an eyebrow, and his fists tremble in barely contained anger as he paces the room, unconsciously forgetting Sif's presence. "Because _that_ is not true – I wouldn't bear their damned slave brand on the back of my neck if it was; I wouldn't have been beaten to the brink of death, only to be horribly resurrected, over, and over, and over again if it was; I wouldn't have had my memories twisted beyond recognition, nor would I have thoughts _that aren't even mine _– implanted inside my head, and—" he cuts himself off, dread building up inside his chest.

_Too much, too much, he shouldn't have said—_

Loki drags his gaze back up to meet Sif's wide, brown eyes, and his breath catches in his throat. She strides over to him, and he shrinks back, bracing himself for a blow, but is surprised to find her arms wrap around his neck in an embrace. He hesitantly slides his arms around her back, and buries his face into her shoulder, breathing in her scent.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Sif whispers as she clings to him tighter, and she sounds unfamiliarly near tears. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Loki scrunches his eyes shut, determined not to let the dam break inside him. "I couldn't. They are not your scars to wear." Sif pulls back a little, her fingertips grazing his pulse as if to make sure it's _there_.

"No, but I can still help you."

He shakes his head, and says, "Redemption is far beyond me, Sif. You should not waste your time."

Sif runs her fingers through his hair – an old habit that hasn't seemed to die with time. "Redemption is beyond whoever did this to you; not Loki, the boy who always had ink stains on his hands and clothes, and who always preferred his books over the bloodshed of war."

Loki smiles, a bitter, watery smile, and as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, he slides down to the floor exhaustedly, leaning against the wall. He draws his knees up to his chest – like he usually did when he was younger, and wanted to become as small as possible. Sif sits next to him, and the smile slips from his lips as he's painfully reminded of all the times they would sit like this in their youth.

She holds him as sobs wrack his thin, ghastly frame, and through the haze of his tears, Loki can't help but feel a bit of comfort with the knowledge that despite all the chaos he's wrought, Sif still accepts him, scars and all.

—

**fin.**


End file.
